My Feet Aren't The Only Things That Hurt
by 42PinchesOfPixieDust
Summary: Lily never like seeing him in the front row. But she's about to see him a lot closer than she would have liked... Jonathan Crane/OC, rated T for language, and adult themes.


My Feet Aren't The Only Things That Hurt

**A/N Yes! I have completely redone this chapter. Thank you so much to those who have read and reviewed. Reviews are like hugs, without the awkward body contact. I give virtual cookies to all of you! I just felt that this chapter needed a re-do. If you would like to see the cover art I created for this story, it's on my deviantart:**

art/Scarecrows-Can-t-and-Won-t-Dance-392070368

**Disclaimer:**

**I do not own the Scarecrow, Jonathan Crane, or Batman/Gotham in any way. Sadly. I do, however, own Lily Raines and her friends that I created.**

**Chapter 1: Black Out**

_I won't blackout  
This time I've got nothing to waste  
Let's go a little harder  
I'm on fire  
I won't blackout  
I'm on my way  
I'm only getting started_

_-Breathe Carolina, __**Blackout**_

I never thought that I, Lillison Raines, would be Clara. I dreamed about it, sure. Every night since I saw in on stage at six years old. _Every_ night. Well, every night that I _could_ sleep. Living in a place like Gotham doesn't help my fear of rats. Yes, rats. Not mice, they're cool. But rats. Those filthy, evil excuses for an animal. They're _rodents_. Just the word rodent gives me the creeps.

It also doesn't help that I live alone. In an apartment. On the outskirts of the Narrows. In _Gotham_. Brilliant. Rats practically made a home in the walls of my house. Every night I can hear them scratching to get out. And so, every night, I go home with nightmares, even without _seeing_ any rats. Hearing them causes enough damage.

I would go to live with my parents, if I had any. My parents died when I was only 2, so I went to go live with my grandma. She then died soon after I turned 18. No one was there to watch me reach my dreams.

Granted, Gotham Theater isn't exactly the crème de la crème of places to perform. It isn't like Carnegie Hall or anything. But where else would I go? I can't exactly leave with what little money I have. Ballets only pay off when they are happening, not during production.

I can tell that we're quickly losing popularity. The people in Gotham have lost their touch for the finer things in life. It's saddening. The Narrows has quickly become Hell on Earth. What with the mob, and all the other crazies who broke out of Arkham a while ago, you never know what will happen. Nor do you care.

Long ago, people just stopped caring. Hearing gunshots is no longer foreign, nor is seeing a murder on TV. For some oddballs, it's entertaining. Like to that clown-y guy. What's-his-face... The Laugher? Oh, No. Oops. The Joker. Yeah, that creep. He takes Halloween to a whole new level. It's awful. Last month, he murdered one of the girls from the snowflake scene. She was replaced quickly, like she was never there. I think her name was Mandy. I think. No one seemed to care when she died. The company director kept telling us to move on, "The show must go on." It's like that guy's mantra or something.

I felt so bad when I heard about it. She was always so kind to me. Most of the others never cared for me. Even after I nabbed Clara's role. They all had to blame it on something else when I asked what was wrong. I had brown hair, for example. The other girls "preferred" a blond Clara. Talk about specific. Although I wouldn't say my hair is brown. Some call it chocolate, or chestnut, to be nice.

I always thought it looked like dirt.

That's another problem. I'm not a gorgeous beauty like some of the others. I don't have the perfectly thin legs, or the proper ballerina neck. But that's fine. I don't need it. That's the thing about Clara. She's a child, so she doesn't need to be blindingly beautiful. And she wears a nightgown for the entirety of the show, so I don't need mile-long legs.

I just need to be able to dance. THAT I can do. I think even the crazy pants director was impressed at my audition.

Which is good. I practiced my butt off for that thing. I practiced so much, and so often, that my neighbors were banging on the walls for me to "Shaddup and practice my fancy-schmancy dancin' routine somewhere else".

Dancing is really the only thing left for me now. So I'm determined to hang on to it for as long as I can.

Well, the only things I have are dancing, and Michael.

No, he isn't my boyfriend. He's gay, thank you very much. But for the longest time I had a crush on him. He plays the Nutcracker prince, so I sure got to dance with him quite close. Not that I minded. When I was small, I dreamed of a fantasy where I thought that some amazingly handsome Nutcracker prince would save me from the vile rats.

For the longest time, I thought Michael was going to be just that. But as I got closer to him, I learned things about him. When I found out that he was gay, sure I was sad. He happens to be a gorgeous guy. And a TOTAL gentleman.

And that gentleman became my best friend.

Michael, my best friend. My only friend. Michael, the gay Nutcracker prince. Huh.

He's the greatest guy I've ever met.

_He_ isn't.

Well, I don't know him personally. Not that I'd want to. All I know is that he gives me chills.

The first time I saw him, I was having a great day. I was doing what I do best. Dance. But then I glanced at the front row, and there he was. I have nothing against people watching me. Some people who go to see the show are potential sponsors. But the way he did it unnerved me.

He was sitting. And smirking. Not smiling, mind you. Smiling would be fine. Smirking. At me! The nerve!

Course, I was on the throne with Michael for Act II, so I couldn't go anywhere. That's the thing. He's always there in Act II only. He's only there to smirk at me when I'm sitting on that throne with nowhere to hide by dancing. Believe me, I've checked. I've watched out during Act I for days as I dance. He isn't there then. It's an empty seat. But during Act II, he's there in all of his smirkin' glory.

It's just... the way he looks at me. It's like he's trying to stare into my soul. Almost like... something good for him is going to happen. But nothing odd has happened. Yet.

Tonight is, from what I've heard from the stage hands, a full house. It's quite rare. In fact, I don't think we've ever gone a night with all the seats filled. I wonder why tonight is so special.

Besides the fact that today is my birthday. My 21st, to be exact. It's nothing special to me, just another day of me getting older. How... nice.

I haven't told anyone, just Michael. He's the only person who would really care. The director doesn't really care about us, just how much money we bring in for him. The quality of art is really lost on this guy.

I'm nervous. Even more so than usual. I always get nervous before a show.

It's my stage fright.

Yeah... I have stage fright. Well, sort of. I'm not afraid of performing.

Just in front of _him_. I can't stand dancing in front of him. He looks at me like he thinks I'm dancing _for_ him.

Yeah. Not in a million years.

I just can't _stand_ how he looks at me, sitting there, smirking. It makes me feel self-conscious, like I could mess up at any moment.

But I haven't messed up. Ha! Take that... random guy!

Well... that's a lie. I messed up _once_. Once! But that seemed to be enough for _him_.

I hadn't slept at all that night, so I was pretty sluggish. I tried to bring my game on... but I really had just wanted to go sleep on the prop bed.

It was during the Finale. I was dancing with Michael, and I... lost my footing.

I take that back. I tripped on a flat surface.

Holding on to Michael, I managed to trip both of us into crashing down on the stage. Oops. And I might have also knocked over a few of the other dancers in the process.

I was lucky that not many people were watching that night. The audience took it lightly, laughing, they were entertained by my slip-up.

The director, however, was not entertained. He chewed me out for hours, saying I should be more careful.

He also suggested I start drinking coffee. Ew. No thanks.

_He, however,_ found it all hilarious. That was the first time I saw him laugh, even if it was a know-it-all, smirking, I-was-waiting-for-you-to-do-this laugh.

Right after I landed, I looked at the audience. I was expected gasps of surprise, or him to be gone. But he was sitting there, laughing at me.

When he was done laughing, he gave me this look. It said to me, "We both know you can do better than that." It was like the only reason he had been coming to see me was to watch me fall. But he still kept coming.

It's starting to creep me out. Although, I think we passed creepy a while ago and are on our way to downright scary.

I lost count of how many shows he's seen after twelve.

Now, I'm sitting in my dressing room (That's right, I have my own! It's awesome), getting poked and prodded by my stylist, Linda.

Linda's a sweet, 40-something southern belle. Why she moved to _Gotham_ of all places from her country home is a mystery to me.

I feel too curious to not know.

"Linda, why _did_ you move to Gotham?"

She stopped and smiled at me in the midst of putting blush on my already red cheeks.

"Why, child. I moved for my husband." And the mystery is revealed.

This surprised me. Having a guy is great. But I don't agree to giving up what you do, where you are to be with one.

"Why would you move just for a guy? That makes no sense to me."

"When you meet someone who makes your heart beat faster, you'll do anything to stay with 'im."

"Sure..."

I don't believe her.

"Trust me, sweetheart. It'll happen."

"Mm-hm," I murmured apprehensively.

Linda pokes, prods, and dabs at my face a little more with who knows what.

I've never been into wearing makeup.

Linda claims she needs to "thin" my face. Whatever that means.

I just think they should put a spotlight on me so no one even has to see my face.

"Done!" exclaims Linda with flourish.

I'll admit. She did a great job. My typically dull hair is bouncy, vibrant, and for once... curly.

Normally my hair is dull, flat, and frizzy. Now it's pulled up so it can sway with my dancing, and topped off with pink ribbon entangled in the curls. She made my dirt brown hair look brighter, it stands out so that you can see me in big dance numbers.

As for my face, she has managed to make me look skinny, a feat I've never been able to do. Linda has made my lips fuller with a light pink, and made my brown eyes look bigger and more innocent. No eye shadow needed, and just a little blush to make me look "youthful".

I'm 21. I think that's pretty young.

I'm not Lily anymore.

I _am_ Clara.

_Will he see it?_

Inner voice. Shaddup.

_Will he?_

I don't care about him!

_Do you?_

No!

_Sure._

Hush, you.

I bite my lip, only to withdraw it as I remember not to mess up my makeup.

Linda seems to notice my inner battle with myself.

"You ain't thinkin' about _that_ boy, are you?"

"Linda! No!"

Linda is the only other person I've confided in about his... er, visits.

"Sure, honey. Sure."

"Linda! Please!"

"Oh, hush child! I've seen that boy you talk about from the wings. He ain't bad..."

She nudges me with her elbow.

"Ugh..." I place my face in my hands daintily, can't mess up the makeup.

I can't really argue, though. He may look pretty stiff, like he doesn't know what fun is. But he still has a nice face. At least, from what I've seen of him. Even with glasses.

Linda looks down at me and fixes her face into a more serious way.

"Do be careful, hun."

"Why?"

"I've seen that boy walking around the Narrows quite a lot. Who wears a suit into the Narrows confidently unless they got some business workin' there? He's got his hands down deep in that dirt, sweetie. I'd watch out."

"Huh... like... the mob?" I raise my head to look at her questioningly. Everybody knows how dangerous the mob is.

"I ain't about to go ask 'im."

"Huh."

"Don't worry about 'im, sweetheart. You get out there and show him how we do it!"

"Thanks, Linda."

I walk out of my room to head for the wings.

The show starts soon.

As I walk down the hall, I take note of how run down it all seems. The walls are cracked and yellowing, and the ceiling lights flicker every five seconds. I never like going down this hall way.

It goes right past Mandy's room.

Mandy's room is now used for some other dancer, someone neither as nice nor kind as she was.

This hall way was hit by The Joker's "games".

HA HA HA is painted in bright red letters on the far end of the hall. Nobody has bothered to clean it up. I'm unsure of how Mandy died, but I heard it was pretty messy. As she was murdered in this hallway, I always have to tell myself that the red paint is just paint.

I don't believe myself.

I hurry past the horrid "mural" to get to the backstage area where everyone else is stretching and waiting for the show to start.

Somebody's hands cover my eyes and I hear, "Guess who?"

"Marilyn Monroe?"

"Close..."

The voice turns me around and takes away his hands.

"Michael!"

"Sparkles!" I'll never know why he calls me that.

"Good luck!"

"Good luck to you too. And Happy Birthday!"

He picks me up to hug me and spin me around, much to the chagrin of the others that turn their noses up at our "silliness".

"Michael!" I giggle. "You're going to mess up my hair!"

"Sorry, your highness," he snickers.

"Are you having a good birthday?" he asks.

"Better now that you're here."

This was true. He makes the days better.

"I know. I make everything better," he jokes.

"You wish."

"See you on stage, Sparkles."

"Bye, Michael."

He leaves to go put on his shoes.

I go and stand in the wings, time to put on a show.

As the music starts, I can feel myself getting pumped up with adrenaline. My nerves can't stop me now. I step on stage and become my character, smiling and giggling and childish. It feels wonderful.

Soon my least favorite part comes. I have to dance with the rats. I know, I know, they aren't real rats.

Real rats can't dance.

But it still freaks me out, seeing the humungous ears, tails, and teeth. It's no fun at all. I don't need to act terrified, I _am_ terrified.

Then... what?

Why is _he_ here!

He's never here in the first act!

Never!

Why now?

Why today?

I don't have to act confused this time either. I _am_ confused.

He's smirking even wider than usual. Like something is going to happen.

And, soon enough, something does happen.

It started when the music stopped,

And the screams started.

The music stopped with a halting screech.

All the dancers, including me, froze.

Fog-like smoke started seeping from the orchestra pit. The musicians scrambled out of the pit screaming bloody murder, like they were on fire! But there seemed to nothing wrong with them, nor with the pit itself. They were just screaming.

Then the fog reached the audience. That's when the screams magnified tenfold. Everyone was just running. And screaming. For what, I didn't know.

To tell the truth, I don't _want_ to know. But I'm about to find out.

The fog started to creep up the stage. By this point, most people with a brain have left the building. But I couldn't move. What is it about this fog that everyone is so afraid of? It's not a killing agent, I _think_. I don't see any dead bodies. By Gotham standards, if you don't see any, they still might be there. This terrifies me.

I can't see. Not Michael, not _him_, not anybody. I don't like it.

Then the fog wraps itself around my ballet toed feet. It walks its way up my body and practically smacks me in the face. It stings my eyes with dull pain and smells like dust and wet feathers. It's a terrifyingly gross combination.

Then I sense it. Fear. All around.

Fear of what?

Rats. BIG ones. They're scuttling along the wooden floor, their demon eyes looking straight at... me! Even once they reach me I find that I still can't move, nor scream, nothing. Just stare at them like an idiot with my mouth agape and my eyes wide.

They've started scratching at my dress, their claws digging at my skin. Roughly, but not enough to draw blood, thank _god_.

_Then_ I start to scream. And scream. And _scream_! My throat is turning raw from screaming. I don't know how long I've done this, but I do know that I've sagged to the floor, whimpering as the rats huddle all around me, biting and tearing and squeaking.

I manage to look around me, to see that whatever people are left don't look like people anymore. They're all now rat-like, humanoid monsters. Tails, claws, and teeth included. It's a horrific sight. I can't imagine a worse nightmare.

Then I spot _him_.

But he doesn't look the same. Same suit, same stiff tie. But he has a… a mask on over his head. It looks like it might have been a burlap sack to hold potatoes at one point, but it has aged from being worn quite often. It has two holes for eyes that looks like they were ripped out, not cut. Then I saw the smile. It was ripped out but stitched along, like someone has tried to force it closed but it keeps on opening. It's a grotesque, half smile, half scowl, like it can't decide whether to be happy or evil so it decided on both. It's an odd sight, almost like a nightmarish… scarecrow.

He is the only person not screaming. He strides over to me, and stops, towering above me.

"Miss Raines, you look awful. Something troubling you?"

I can't form words. "Mrggbliif…"

"I believe you need a doctor, Miss Raines…"

I can't see his face, but I can feel his smile. No, his smirk.

He speaks calmly, with his hands in his pockets.

"This will only hurt a lot, Miss Raines, I assure you."

He raises his right hand out of his pocket to place it above my head.

My head is throbbing painfully, screaming at me to run.

But I can't.

I've no idea what was in his hand.

I felt a sharp pain in the back of my head. I felt like I was on fire, in the worst possible way.

I guess I'll have to ask him what he was holding later.

I hear him say "Good Night, Miss Raines. Don't let the rats bite…"

Then I blacked out.

**A/N Thank you so much to those who reviewed! I hope this re-do is a lot better. Until next chapter!**


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